


Better Than Those Before (Interlude)

by Mysana



Series: The Extraordinary Life of Darcy Lewis (Much to her Fathers' Worry) [19]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BOTH, Dark, Fluff, Gen, Introspection, Moriarty Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-03 05:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysana/pseuds/Mysana
Summary: Having a bad childhood does not mean you will be a bad parent. Promise.





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I was having a hard time writing the Christmas Extravaganza because I hadn't really fleshed out this universe's Sherlock characters. Also it was bit too much happy. So here's the story that I've been writing in parallel.

To the surprise of most people, it’s not John who decides to adopt Darcy, it’s Sherlock. At the start, John is merely present. It happens because they’re on a case and the orphanage director is corrupt. Sherlock is looking through the kids' rooms, trying to find where the cash is hidden when one of the doors refuses to open. Reluctantly, he knocks. There’s shuffling and a,

 

“Just a second,” and then the door opens to reveal a young girl. Sherlock’s not exactly sure how old because she’s small enough to be as young as 8 but her bone structure suggests she could be as old as 13. Her hair is messy and tied up is a ponytail. It’s lumpy and clearly for function not the way it looks. Her hands are still and in front of her in a way that makes Sherlock think that she wants to be hiding them behind her but also knows that would be suspicious. 

 

“Give me your hands.” Sherlock says, and without waiting he lifts one up to near eye level. They’ve got indents around the fingertips and there’s a smudge of oil, or perhaps grease on the side of her thumb. There are calluses in strange places and the skin is rough from lack of lotion or over washing. The knuckles are bruised and scabbed but not in the right places to have been from a fist fight. (On the top not the front.) Sherlock drops her hand and walks past her into the small room.

 

Unlike with the other rooms, this girl is alone. It’s a bunk bed like all the other rooms, but where most rooms have four children in there, this one only has one bunk bed and one child. Instead there’s a desk made of clearly recycled furniture. There’s a cardboard movers box that sits closed, next to the desk. Sherlock opens it up to reveal a radio which is half way to being taken apart.

 

“Please don’t tell Mr. Manning.” The girl whispers, “he doesn’t like when I fix things. Even when I put them back together afterwards.” She’s absently rubbing the knuckles on her right hand, which twitches slightly. Sherlock stands. He doesn’t move, he’s not sure he can. He’s seen so many children in the homeless network. He’s done his best to make it better for them. He’s tried to make sure they don’t end up on drugs, that as few as possible die from the cold, or hunger. He know, he _knows,_ that they would refuse to move into Baker Street even if he offered. They’d each been burned too many times. 

 

But this girl. 

 

This girl makes him think of himself. Makes him think of decomposing birds in boxes under his bed. Makes him think of children laughing when he can’t answer a question - not because he’s stupid - but because he wasn’t listening. This girl makes him think of doctor after doctor. This girl makes him think of the papers that are still floating around where he is “Subject S.H.”. 

 

Before he realises it John is in the room and touching his shoulder, the girl is speaking stumbling sentence,

 

“I didn’t do anything! He just- I just- I wasn’t doing anything-“ Then as an after thought, “Please don’t tell Mr. Manning.”

 

“Sherlock, are you okay?” Sherlock turns and looks at John, he goes quiet all the time, why’s he so worried? “You’ve turned quite pale. Even more so than usual, which is saying something.” John attempts a smile but his brow is still furrowed and he’s looking at Sherlock’s hands- Oh. Sherlock looks down. He’s scratched his hands like he had as a child. He hadn’t done it in years. They’re bleeding now. 

 

“I need to go. Mr. Manning is in on it as well,” _Obviously_ “the money is in with his stuff. Talk to his ex-wife, she’ll know where it is if you can’t find it.” Then Sherlock leaves because he’s been scratching his hands and now they’re red and vaguely painful. 

 

***

 

Two names stick in Sherlock’s head. George Manning. And Darcy Lewis. After the case, which really should’ve been solved by the police - so simple! So obvious! Sherlock had looked at the files for each of the children, trying to identify if any of the them had been sexually assaulted, George Manning was the type to have done so, but luckily he had seen no evidence to support it. The girl though - the one with the broken radio and beaten knuckles - she wouldn’t leave his head. 

 

Sherlock knows that he isn’t anyone's idea of a fit parent. But he also knows that there are very few people who understanding being a child genius and that makes him more qualified than anyone else to look after Darcy Lewis. 


	2. Hamish Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The violin says the things that Sherlock can't.

It’s spring time, Sherlock knows this because there are a lot of cases of robbery in spring time. He does not know what month it is - that information is mostly irrelevant and changes far too often for him to bother saving. It’s evening time and John is making omelettes. Sherlock thinks he might be feeling sad. John is often sad these days, he shuffles his feel and looks down and to the left more often. Sherlock guess that he’s thinking of Hamish and Mary. 

 

Sherlock’s not sure what to do when this happens, so he plays violin. He tries to play a song for Hamish. It starts slowly, but sort of cheerful and gets faster and more complex as Hamish ages. A vague smile at Sherlock’s voice, eyes open but not yet strong enough to see. Stumbling across two feet into Sherlocks arms. Saying his first words. Sherlock thinks of the way that Hamish would relax when held. The music drops and turns suspenseful and Sherlock falls into his mind palace and remembers the first time Hamish aged up. 

 

_Hamish had been sitting on the sofa and Sherlock had been explaining that the antibiotics in Mary’s milk were important for Hamish’s health. In the past few days the infant hadn’t been drinking enough, he’d cried and screamed and Sherlock had been the only one able to console him. Sherlock had turned around and let the light from the window shine through the plastic bottle. It had been quiet for a moment before Sherlock had heard a voice._

 

_“Bah… milll…” Sherlock had spun around to find that Hamish, previously 4 months and two weeks old, now appeared to be around a year and a half old. He was clearly struggling to shape the words, but Sherlock was too shocked to do much of anything besides watch. “Bah mil!” Hamish looked frustrated. “Bad milk Sher-ock!”_

 

_“Bad milk?” Sherlock had said, positively dumbstruck._

 

_“Yea!”_

 

_“What’s wrong with it?” Hamish had paused then stuck a chubby finger on his tongue. “It tastes bad?” Sherlock queried and Hamish had nodded._

 

Sherlock wasn’t particularly aware of what the ‘real world’ was doing but he knew the violin was slow and soft, sad. 

 

_John and Mary were holding each other as Sherlock explained that Hamish must be a mutant. Mary hadn’t looked very surprised. They both looked sad though._

 

_“John, why-“ Sherlock felt unsure, having a child with the X-Gene, it wasn’t that bad was it? “Why are you sad?” John had looked at him with that not quite pitying look that Sherlock got when he was acting like an inhuman freak._

 

_“Children with the X-Gene are more likely to be killed, or hurt. He’ll never have normal life. There is only one school in the world where he’ll be among his peers and it’s basically a school for child soldiers. England is better than many countries. But. We’ll either have to hide it, homeschool him and raise him in isolation, or send him to the school run by Charles Xavier.” Sherlock had felt confused at that moment, Hamish’s ability was not particularly weaponised like many other children’s, so it would seem unlikely that Hamish would become on of the X-Men._

 

The violin is jumping around, reflecting the curiosity and confusion that Sherlock had felt. The excitement and love.

 

_“Get bigger Hamish.” Sherlock had said slowly to the toddler. He watched carefully as Hamish got bigger and bigger. Luckily Sherlock had remembered to but him into a large white t-shirt that was probably once John’s. As Hamish grew his features changed and he was 4, maybe 5._

 

_“No bigger.” Hamish said, crossing his arms and looking serious._

 

_“Why not?”_

 

_“”Cause. No bigger.” Sherlock tilted his head to convey curiosity._

 

_“Why won’t you get bigger? Is it because you don’t want to or because you can’t?” Hamish paused and looking at Sherlock then he shook is head._

 

_“No bigger.”_

 

_Sherlock wanted to push harder, to understand. Nothing about this X-Gene made sense. It should’ve only changed one piece, but instead there seemed to be a lot more involved. And from a biological perspective Hamish was a goldmine. He could get younger as well as older, did that make him immortal? Because his cells were able do divide so quickly could he heal faster?_

 

_The door at the bottom of the stairs closed and Sherlock listened as John walked up the steps._

 

_“Up.” Hamish insisted, sticking his arms out._

 

_“Lift me up, please” Sherlock corrected, taking Hamish up in his arms. John always insisted Sherlock encourage Hamish to be polite and though Sherlock didn’t understand why, he tried._

 

The music evens out into a more cheerful noise.

 

_John had taken Hamish up to bed, it was his 6th birthday and there were no children. Just Sherlock, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft (who’d left over an hour ago). When John came back down and the guests had left Mary and John turned to him._

 

_“It’s not healthy - not having anyone his age.” Mary started, she paused for a moment then said, “we are going to move to America, to a house near Xavier’s Institute. He’ll keep on being homeschooled. But we want him to be able to play with children his age.” Sherlock looked at John, who looked guilty._

 

_“We’re moving soon. Our flight’s in six months, we’ve already bought the house.” John said, sounding strange._

 

_“Okay.” Sherlock had said, not seeing the problem._

 

_“We’ll visit.” John said abruptly, “as often as we can.” He tacked on._

 

_“Why?” Sherlock asked confused, “wouldn’t it make more sense for me to just come with you?” John and Mary shared a look, the kind Sherlock was never able to decipher._

 

_“Sherlock,” John started, “you love London.” Sherlock stared at John._

 

_“Do you not want me to come?” Sherlock asked, it seemed the only plausible explanation._

 

_“What? Of course I want you to come- of course we want you to come. But you’re life is here.” John’s face was red. Sherlock wasn’t sure why. Sherlock looked at John for another long moment._

 

_“I’m your best man.” Sherlock lands on finally. He doesn’t have the right words to explain that London isn’t his without John in it. Without John, London might as well be Brighton. And John knows how Sherlock feels about Brighton._

 

_“I-“ John starts to speak again, but Mary, who has been watching Sherlock closely, puts a hand on John’s shoulder. Sherlock’s not sure why. Why is the shoulder so significant?_

 

_“Sherlock, do you want to come with us?”_

 

_“Yes.”_

 

_“Okay.”_

 

_And that’s that. Mycroft isn’t happy, but Mycroft’s never happy when it comes to Sherlock’s decisions._

 

Sherlock plays out the delicate hope that had filled the home. He’s not quite sure why those words come to mind. He suspects that John had used them on his blog. Then, as the notes rise into a crescendo, they all fall down.

 

_The crib is empty. Sherlock looks in the closet, Hamish sometimes hides in there when he’s upset but Sherlock is already piecing together what’s happened. The window’s open. The new roof has mud on it. It’s been raining recently. Someone has been walking on the roof. Sherlock runs down stairs and looks at the marks in the grass. A ladder. A truck. There’s a note on the wall._

 

_“I promised.” It says. Sherlock wonders who promised what. He doesn’t touch the note, but there’s something on the back. Sherlock calls John._

 

_“Hamish… Missing… Taken…” Sherlock can’t remember what he said. What he remembers is grabbing his lab gloves over his hands and carefully lifting the note upside down so he can see the back. The tape pulls at the new paint on the house so much bigger than London houses._

 

_There’s a drawing. A crude crayon drawing of a burning heart. At first Sherlock’s confused. He wonders if it’s not meant for him. Or if it’s something  common he’s deleted. Then he remembers a dead psychopath’s taunting words._

 

_“I’ll burn the heart out of you Sherlock.”_

 

Sherlock’s not playing music anymore so much and ripping the bow back and forth in a screech. 

 

_There is crying and Sherlock is empty. This is so much worse than committing fake suicide. Then Mary disappears and they throw themselves into the hunt. But the trail's gone cold less than 48 hours later. They were in a van which went onto a highway. That could mean anything. They could be anywhere._

 

_Sherlock called Mycroft._

 

_Sherlock called Lestrade._

 

_Sherlock called the contacts he’s made in Europe who he dares not name - not even in his head._

 

_No one knows anything._

 

Sherlock lets the bow fall. There is no happy ending in this story. Or if there is, they haven’t reached it yet.


	3. Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft only met Hamish Watson 6 times, once on each of this birthdays. When Hamish disappeared there was very little reason for Mycroft to feel particularly upset. And yet all he could think about was Hamish’s sixth birthday during which Hamish had tugged on his sleeve and got frosting all over Mycroft’s suit. All he can think of is Hamish’s fourth birthday where Hamish - starved of new people - begged Mycroft to tell him a story, any story. And Mycroft had done his best to tell Hamish about Sherlock as a child. 

 

Mycroft didn’t mention that he and Sherlock had been equally deprived of social peers. In part because it wasn’t completely true - they’d had each other. Also because he didn’t want to think about it.

 

He didn’t want to think of empty houses and Sherlock’s tiny feet as he ran up to Mycroft. He didn’t want to think about his younger brother who refused to speak expect to Mycroft. No matter how the doctors asks, or pleaded, or tried to trick him, Sherlock remained silent. Mycroft once begged his brother to speak to someone, anyone else. Just so they could be left alone. Sherlock had looked at him, so betrayed. 

 

_Mycroft yawned as he entered the kitchen, he had been awake late the previous night working and was grabbing a couple of eggs for breakfast when Sherlock came in. Held tight in his hands was a newspaper, detailing some murder or another like usual. Except. When Sherlock put the paper on the counter, Mycroft glanced at it. It wasn’t a murder it was ‘Tragic Accident Takes Life of Young Swimmer’ Mycroft turns back to his eggs._

 

_“Mycroft.” Sherlock says, his voice tight with what Mycroft would guess is frustrated indignation._

 

_“Yes, Sherlock?”_

 

_“This was a murder.”_

 

_“Okay.”_

 

_“I told the police but they didn’t believe me.”_

 

_“You told the police? How?”_

 

_“I called them on the phone. They said that I should be in school.”_

 

_“Hmm. Yes, they are rather incompetent aren’t they.” Mycroft doesn’t mention that Sherlock spoke to someone. To anyone other than himself. This was a good thing. It was a good thing. A good thing. Mycroft still could not get the feeling of dread to lift._

 

_“Why aren’t we in school Mycroft?”_

 

_“Many reasons.” Mycroft said, although there was one main reason, the doctors said to keep them together so that Sherlock could ‘learn to speak’. The idiots. The only reason they said that was that they tried separating them but Sherlock had just gone 4 months without saying a word._

 

_“Are they going to send me to school now?”_

 

_“Perhaps.”_

 

_“Why don’t you believe me when I tell you the boy was murdered.”_

 

_“I do believe you.”_

 

_“Then why don’t you do something?!” Sherlock screeched unexpectedly, Mycroft jumped a bit, but pretended he hadn’t._

 

_“People get murdered everyday Sherlock.”_

 

_“Why don’t you do something about it!” Sherlock always believed that Mycroft was far more powerful than he truly was._

 

_“Look Sherlock,” Mycroft said turning off the heat and looking at his younger brother, “I could force the police to look for that one murderer. But I’m not going to. I am going to do my work and I’m going to become important enough to protect people. Instead of chasing down murderers I’m going to stop murders before they happen. But to do that, I need people to like me. And they won’t do that if I tell them that they’re doing their job wrong.”_

 

_“But they are doing their job wrong!”_

 

_“I know. But people are strange, they get offended when people tell them things like that.”_

 

_“You don’t.”_

 

_“I’m not people.”_

 

_Sherlock said nothing as Mycroft put his breakfast not the plate. It wasn’t enough food to be full but it would have to be enough, he had weight to lose. When Mycroft turned back around, Sherlock was gone._

 

Mycroft instead told Hamish about Sherlock being a pirate, about his dog Redbeard.

 

_“Why are they giving me a dog Mycroft?”_

 

_“Because they think it will help you.”_

 

_“Is there something wrong with me?”_

 

_“No, but they think there is.”_

 

_“Why?”_

 

_“Because you’re smarter than they are, not that it’s hard.”_

 

_“They said I should name the dog.”_

 

_“Okay.”_

 

_“I don’t know what you’re supposed to name dogs. In some of the baby books it says they have a dog called Spot. Should I call the dog Spot?”_

 

_“You can if you want to. But Spot is usually a reference to the spots on the dog.”_

 

_“Oh! So a physical identifier!”_

 

_“If you want.” Mycroft said, continuing to mostly ignore Sherlock as he worked on the cypher. It had to be decoded as soon as possible, lives depended on it._

 

_“I’m going to call him Red.”_

 

_“Okay.”_

 

_“Come on Red!” Sherlock said, running down the hall. The dog followed. Mycroft sent the translated message over to his boss._

 

Hamish had wandered off part of the way through - Mycroft wasn’t much of a story teller - but on his fifth birthday Hamish had insisted he finish. Said he’d been thinking about the partly finished story _forever_. 

 

_The dog, who had been named Red, was now Redbeard. And Sherlock had decided he was pirate. Mycroft wasn’t quite sure what to do with this information, but it made Mummy happy, so Mycroft didn’t mind. What he did mind was when Sherlock ran into his room waving around a wooden sword and knocked over his books and radio._

 

_He told Sherlock off and closed the door behind him._

 

_Sherlock came in later, shouting as Mycroft wrote out his report on the latest incident. And Mycroft, working on three hours of sleep and not enough food yelled at Sherlock. Perhaps for the first time in either of their lives._

 

_“I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”_

 

_“Now you’re just being childish Sherlock. Get out.” Mycroft said. Then he closed and locked the door. He had a report to finish._

 

Mycroft had only met Hamish Watson 6 times. And yet he still mattered. 

 

When Sherlock called and begged for help in a way he’d only done twice before, Mycroft had done everything in his power. And Mycroft had a lot of power. CCTV across Europe (though mostly in Britain) swivelled back and forth, looking for one boy among millions. The Scotland Yard, FBI, Interpol, _everyone_ knew to be on the look out for the the stolen Hamish Watson. They had the boy’s picture and knew that he was the son of someone very important. 

 

Mycroft tried. He _tried_ so very, very hard. But there was nothing to be done. Hamish Watson could not be found. 

 

_Sherlock was crying and crying and crying. The veterinarian had said they had to put Redbeard down. Mycroft came with, because Sherlock needed him to. And Mycroft almost always did what Sherlock needed him to._

 

_“Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly._

 

_“Yes?”_

 

_“Save him. Save Redbeard.”_

 

_“I can’t.”_

 

_“Please Mycroft! Please!” Sherlock moved slowly until he was on his knees and clasped his hands together as if in prayer. “Please Mycroft!”_

 

_“I can’t.” Mycroft repeated, almost in horror, “there is nothing I can do. If there was, I would. But I can’t!”_

 

_“I hate you.” Sherlock whispered. And for the first time, Mycroft believed him._

 

Time passed, as time does, but Mycroft did not move on. Regardless, he continued working, and looking, and generally making sure Britain continued standing. Sherlock visited, just once, and for the first time in years there wasn’t a single comment on his weight. For good reason. Mycroft knew he had lost weight. He knew he’d gotten a new wardrobe since the old one hung loose on what was never supposed to be a thin frame. But, in ironic cliche, food tasted like dirt sitting heavy on his tongue. 

 

_For weeks after Redbeard died Sherlock was spitefully mean to Mycroft. From leaving notes that said, ‘I hate you’ to calling him ‘Fatty’ when there was no one else around. Mycroft left the house and locked the door behind him. Sherlock wasn’t allowed to leave. Mycroft didn’t come back until late that night when Mummy and Father were already home and Sherlock was already asleep. His parents were waiting for him inside. Mummy wasn’t stupid, but she was busy and did whatever the doctors told her too. Even though Mummy was smarter than even Mycroft, she was weak._

 

_“Mike,” Mummy said, “the doctors think it’s time for you to go to school.”_

 

After that Mycroft let Hamish go. He had no other choice. Either he let Hamish go or he let himself go. He could not let himself go, if not for his own good then he would let Hamish go for the sake of Britain. And then, something strange happened. 

 

_“Class, say hello to our new student, Mike Holmes.” The woman said, Mycroft looked at the dishevelled uniforms and bored students. There was a vague murmur of ‘Hello’ and Mycroft took the seat at the front. They’d both been sent off to school. Sherlock to a local primary and Mycroft to a boarding school._

 

 _The teacher kept him after class, commented on how he seemed a bit bored. Mycroft replied that he's already learned this content. He had, he learned it years ago. But when they’d been applying to school the psychiatrist at Mycroft’s work said it was important for him to socialise with his peers. That even if he could pass his GCSEs and A Levels now, he should wait until he was the 'right age' to leave school. Mycroft had barely restrained himself from scoffing._ Sherlock _could pass his GCSEs now. Mycroft was well past that, and he had no peers._

 

Sherlock asked Mycroft for help, and Mycroft obliged, as he usually did. He pulled some strings, ordered illegal acts to be committed, and then Sherlock had a daughter. 

 

Mycroft met Darcy Lewis 6 times in that first year. He was struck by the amount of potential she had. Hamish Watson, regardless of his special mutation, had been a fairly normal human. A normal human with average intellect. Darcy Lewis, was not. She was a bit awkward, but not enough that she would never grow out of it. She was smart, a genius even, but having spent so long around people who didn’t care, she lacked the ego and strange, awkward self centred loathing that many other young geniuses shared. Himself included.

 

_The school yard bullies rarely bothered Mycroft anymore. In part because he has gotten rather good at revenge, and in part because they couldn’t be bothered. They’d reached an agreement. Mycroft didn’t tell anyone about their smoking, drinking, and other misbehaviours, and they left him alone._

 

 _He’s at home now, for Christmas. There is a girl who lives a couple of streets away. She asked him out on a date. Mycroft had scowled and turned her down, aware that this was a dare from her friends. His mother was telling him off now for being rude to such a sweet girl. Sherlock came into his room later. Climbed onto his bed, while Mycroft is working. Sherlock had said, in a voice far louder than it used to be, ‘her friends dared her to ask you out because she’s been talking about you since you left.’ Mycroft didn’t say anything._ Couldn’t _say anything. He felt something though. Many things actually. Shame. Disgust. Self-loathing._

 

_He never apologies to the girl. He can’t find the right words or courage. Mycroft wonders what Sherlock would say. Sherlock was smart and brave enough._

 

_Mycroft never tells a soul, but he’s always known that Sherlock was smarter._

 

She was pretty. It made Mycroft feel terrible to think it, but Darcy Lewis' features were aesthetically pleasing which was important for young women in the modern age. If he could, Mycroft would change it, but he couldn’t. As it was he would be happy that genetics and circumstance somehow allowed young Darcy Lewis is be smart, funny, and pretty. 

 

_Sherlock is stupid enough to be a good parent, brave enough too. Although he didn’t used to be._

 

He never once thought that he was emotionally compromised like most parents were. It didn’t occur to him once.


	4. J. Moriarty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim a little bit... insane, well yes that's the word. Insane.

Jim’s biggest weakness is that he is _so changeable_. He was the villain of the story, and everyone knew that the villain must have a weakness. So Jim decided he would be changeable. He felt it was a rather clever weakness. It was like how in interviews when they asked what your biggest weakness was you should name a strength disguised as a weakness. Being changeable meant he was flexible. That said, it was his weakness and he was going to stick to it.

 

His most impressive feat, in his own opinion (after succeeding in making a perfect creme brûlée) was dying, and then not actually. Or rather, Jim died, and another replaced him. 

 

 _James working late as usual. Being the head of a massive crime organisation had a few downsides, and working late was one of them. Luckily, tonight was one of the fun nights when he got_ terrify _people who were getting in his way. In fact, he wasn’t really working, so much as eating dinner across from an…_ associate _who’d forgotten their place. The diner was not his style, the food was terrible, and the portion sizes were depressingly large. However, it had really thrown Ms. Johnson off balance. So very off balance._

 

 _As he was there, eating his way through a large plate of pancakes, the small tear opened. Not a normal tear, like one in a suit or on a piece of paper. No, this was a_ special _tear. One in the fabric of reality. James really shouldn’t be able to recognise it. By all rights it_ was _impossible. That said, one of his alliance organisations, Hydra, had been doing some…_ research _and James had been kept updated on it. (Not that they knew that, that was the whole point of spies after all.)_

 

Anyway, _a tear opened up right next to the table James was sitting at, and it got larger, and larger. The correct response to seeing a tear in the universe (if one recognised it) was to run as far as you could as fast as you could. Tears in space were generally a bad idea. James thought it would be an interesting way to die. He wondered if anyone else had died because of one in this reality yet. He hoped no one had, then he would be the_ first _. And wouldn’t that be interesting._

 

_Bigger, and bigger._

 

_It wasn’t a black gaping hole into the abyss that he faced though, it was man in what appeared to be a laboratory. The man was scar faced, and by normal people circumstances, terrifying. James thought he looked a bit like a hopeful puppy._

 

_“Jim? Is that you?”_

 

 _“Jim? That’s rather informal of you,” James said, smiling a_ soul crushing _smile. The kind that made babies quiet and grown men whimper. The man in the other reality grinned._

 

_“It’s you.”_

 

 _“Me?” Came James’ coy reply. Being chased across realities was rather…. mmm how do you say it…_ thrilling _._

 

_“Do you not know who I am?” The man asked, looking… not concerned, surprised perhaps?_

 

_“No.” A short reply as James started to get bored._

 

_“My name is Sebastian Mor-“_

 

 _“I. Don’t. Care.” This was a waste of time. A hole in the space of reality open for all of a minute and James was bored_ bored BORED.

 

“ _You lost. In my reality. You played a game and you lost. So I came to find you.” The man - S-something - said, not mincing words._

 

_“Oh?”_

 

_“Get in loser, we’re going shopping?”_

 

_“Why are you quoting Mean Girls?”_

 

 _“It’s the most effective method to get you to do what I want_ and _not kill me.”_

 

_“I see.”_

 

_“Is it working?”_

 

_“Surprisingly? Yes. Can I just walk through?”_

 

_“Yep.”_

 

_“Convenient.”_

 

_“For you, yes.” The man said with a sigh that told James there was story behind it. Maybe this wouldn’t be so boring after all._

 

 _“Alright.” James, and slid out of the booth. Ms. Johnson was staring. How utterly_ boring. _James aimed his pointer finger at her and shot her with his finger gun. Less than a second later the sniper across the street had a bullet rushing through her head. “Now that_ that’s _taken care of…” James turned and waltzed through the tear, just big enough for him. “How long have I been dead?”_

 

_“Five years.”_

 

_Not boring at all._

 

As it was, Jim’s not sure how he _survived_ without Sebby for all those years before him. Of course, he could do it again if he ever decides to kill him. But he’s _so_ useful. Old Jim’s notes were perhaps slightly less complete than his own. Old Jim had clearly been insane. Jim was insane too of course, but a little… differently. He’s been working on matching up as many characteristics as possible, but old Jim’s obsession with Sherlock Holmes was a little sad. John and Mary Watson, on the other hand. _They_ were interesting. 

 

Mary Watson. 

 

What an deceptively boring name. But he knew the truth. Unlike the old Jim, Jim dealt with Hydra. With the Red Room - or what was left of it. _Jim could see a Black Widow agent when they came along._

 

***

 

Little itty bitty Hamish Watson was a surprise. Was _the_ surprise. Black Widow agents were supposed to be sterilised. Were _definitely_ sterilised. And yet… There seemed to be pretty clear proof that Mary Watson was not. 

 

The mutant part was a surprise too of course. But that could be blamed on chance. It seemed unlikely though. Jim decided he _must_ get his hands on it. Him. On him. (One had to be careful when looking after children. They had delicate psyche, calling one an ‘it’ could cause… damage.) 

 

***

 

Hamish was better than Jim had ever expected. _So_ much better. The poor thing was treated like an absolute idiot by his parents, by Sherlock. Jim knew the truth. Jim pushed him to be better. To be stronger. To be faster. To be _interesting_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAH! I want this chapter to be good so badly. But it's been three weeks since I updated and I'm still not happy, so I'm going to put this up anyway. Comments are _greatly_ appreciated because I want to write Jim _so badly_ but if all of his scenes are as hard to write as this I'll have to avoid him. :( 
> 
> What do you think? Do you like reading about Jim/Jim's POV?


	5. Only a Matter of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Starks it’s not a matter of possibility, only of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is here thanks to the comments from **nemohana** , **FlowerFly** , **GenesisVi**. These comments came exactly three days apart (3 days ago, six days ago, nine days ago) and reminded me to keep writing. Thank you, all of you, for your support.

Tony isn’t overstating himself when he says he is the smartest person in the world. A combination of genetics, a lack of childhood, and a state of the art education has left him with the ability to advance the world in any direction he wants.

_His father was the same way. Howard brought the flying car into fashion and then back out again. He invented sonar technology to look for Captain America and ignored green energy. Sometimes Tony wonders how different the world would be if it had gone the other way. Steve Rogers never found, but the renewable energy 50 years ahead of what it is now. How different would the world be if the Starks were different?_

There is nothing he can’t do, only a lack of time with which to do it.

_An interviewer asked him once why he didn’t make prosthetics. It was a good question. He could, if he wanted to, revolutionise the world of prosthetics. In 10 years there would be no one who was unwillingly deaf, blind, or physically disabled. That’s the thing though. He could do the same for education. For transport. For camera technology. Any area, you name it, Tony can improve it. But he will only live so long. He’s already dedicated 40 years to AI and war. Another 5 to Iron Man and green energy. He doesn’t have forever, he has to prioritise. He’s decided to improve the world as much as possible for as many people as possible in the time that he has. However long that may be. As payment to Yinsen, as a thank you._

_Tony never cared about being called the Merchant of Death. He’d known he was a killer since he’d been 15. He’d known that he could save millions of lives by improving desalinisation techniques. In five years he could reduce dehydration world wide to negligible levels. He’d wanted to do it too. Howard had spent an entire hour explaining why he wouldn’t. (It came down to money - poor people without water couldn’t invest in them and Stark Industries would be pressured into selling them at a reduced price. Tony would make more money faster working on weapons.)_

_Tony will always live with the guilt. He was a killer long before he was Iron Man. Long before he was the Merchant of Death. He has been a killer since he saw a way he could save lives and actively chose not to take it._

Maybe that’s part of the reason he makes Jarvis. Because someday Tony will be gone but Jarvis will not. (Jarvis is brave enough and smart enough to make decisions that benefit the greater good. To know which decision that is. Jarvis will not make the same decisions Tony has. Jarvis will be better.) Jarvis is not enough, but someday Jarvis will build someone who is. (Jarvis will never see Tony as a father the same way Tony sees Jarvis as a son, he just isn’t able to. But Jarvis will make a better AI, Tony made sure of it. Someday Jarvis, or his child, will take over the Stark legacy as the next generation. Someday Jarvis will change the path of Stark Industries just as Tony has.

 _Tony sometimes likes to imagine the future. Where Jarvis doesn’t need to hide for fear of rabid civilians who only know about AI from ‘futuristic’ horror movies. He laughs at civilian’s fear because Jarvis is an assistant. Jarvis will only ever be an assistant (and maybe a creator) and he likes being an assistant. He cannot imagine Jarvis hurting anyone. Jarvis has no protocol that blocks him from hurting people. It was stupid idea he had while drunk, and he has never regretted his choice. Jarvis can hurt people, but chooses not to. (Like a human. Like a person, because Jarvis is a person.) He likes to imagine a future where Jarvis is accepted. (Where his_ son  _is accepted.)_

Jarvis has no motivation to be the head of Stark Industries, not yet. Maybe he never will. (Tony will never force Jarvis to take over Stark Industries. He is wiling to give it to Pepper instead if Jarvis doesn’t want it. He suspects however, that Jarvis’ opinion will change with time and knowledge. (It’s always a matter of time. The real question is if Jarvis will get there in time.) But then… Darcy Lewis comes into the picture. A background piece, a pawn at most. Then suddenly he finds she has made it to the other end of the board and is now a queen. (His daughter. _His daughter._ )

 _Howard was a terrible, terrible father. Tony knows he’s got daddy issues. Knows that Howard fucked him up. He promised,_ promised _that he would never do that to another person. He almost did it to Jarvis. He knew that he couldn’t trust himself with a child. But then Darcy came in. Already a woman fully grown, and Tony hungered for a relationship like a man starving._

Darcy Lewis will someday be the smartest person in the world. He does not think he is overstating himself. Genetics and adopted parents who are a perfect pair in a way Tony’s own parents could never even hope to match combined has already made her a dangerous woman. All she needs experience. Darcy is so clever, he can see it in the way her eyes glide over his workshop and the way she thinks something through in less than ten seconds. Thinking through something more thoroughly than most people could in a week.

_Howard was always dismissive of Tony’s own genius. Insisted that he himself was smarter, more driven. Howard could never accept being anything but the best. Tony realises now just how much of a sad old man his father was. How broken by the war and the loss of his hero. Tony doesn’t forgive him, doesn’t think he will ever be able to. But he can understand now, to some extent. The feeling that he can’t let anyone down. He can’t be less than perfect. It broke Howard. Tony won’t let it break him too._

Darcy is better than Tony, better than Jarvis in that she is more human. Of course, Jarvis will become more human over time, but it’s too late for Tony. He doesn’t mind. He now has a daughter as well as a son and he’s not sure what to do with them. Either of them if he’s being truthful. But they are there, and it… it makes things better.

_Tony smiles more now. It took him a while to notice. Malibu was always rather lonely though, and Avenger Tower is anything but. The fact that Darcy, Jarvis, Pepper, and Bruce all being here makes Tony a better person. Even the psychiatrist that Tony calls every January as a New Years Revolution agrees._

Tony is not jealous of Darcy. Not really, but he wishes he had gotten the chance to watch her grow up. He would have been a terrible father and can’t regret that she grew up with a genius that was not his own. A doctor and a detective. Both special and important to so many. He has many feelings about her adopted parents, but they are all so complicated, so mixed he’s never sure what he really thinks.

_Tony wants to make parallels between his own life and Darcy’s. But that would make Tony the Howard of the story. That would mean Sherlock Holmes taking the place of Edwin Jarvis and John Watson replacing Anna. But it doesn’t work like that. Tony refuses to be Howard. (He refuses. Always has.) He does not think the others fit their roles all that well either. It’s better this way._

He doesn’t think Darcy realises how smart she is. She grew up among geniuses and doesn’t identify with them the way most geniuses do. But that’s the thing. That’s why she’s better.

_It took Tony until he got to boarding school to realise that he was a genius. Up until then he’d had private tutors who moved on to new topics as soon as he understood and talked about nothing other than school work. He was only compared to Howard. How could he be expected to compare to a man 50 years older? At boarding school he was constantly bored (even as he skipped grades like other children skipped rope) and regularly assaulted by exclamations of jealousy or glee over his brain. Howard had never treated him like anything other than a stupid child._

Tony can spot a prodigy a mile away. Geniuses don’t understand people. Their brains work differently, too quickly, too rationally. They can’t understand emotions or relationships. _They can’t slow down_. Darcy isn’t like that. She can smile and small talk and she can mean it in a way Tony never could. She offers advice she means and she has somehow stopped herself from over thinking to the point of drug use. Something three of her four parents failed at.

_Tony would lay in bed for hours hoping his thoughts would slow and he would finally fall asleep as sometimes happened. Other nights he would get no more than 3 hours, some none at all. In class, the teacher would mention something and he would miss everything that happened until he was through with that train of thought. Sometimes it would take minutes, other times it would be hours, days, or weeks._

_He was in university when he finally became desperate enough to try drugs. He hadn’t slept in four days, he was hallucinating, and he’d written thousands of lines of code (the code that eventually made up Dummy). His latest girlfriend had broken up with him and he was just so_ tired. _It had started with vodka and weed and only got worse from there. Rehab was a hell he was glad neither of his children would ever have to go through._

Darcy has slowed herself down and it is the most remarkable thing.

_He wished he had been able to slow down. That Howard had been able to slow down._

Tony almost thought she couldn’t speed back up again. Then she met the Hulk and Tony watched her brain move at a thousand miles an hour. He watched as she panicked and regained control. Afterwards he watched the spare clips of footage he found in the darkest corners of SHIELD. (Most physical or digital evidence of Darcy Lewis’ existence seems to be mostly hypothetical, as if someone has deleted her. Hidden her.) The footage of her and Thor. In the desert and in England.

He watches her brain go a _million_ miles an hour in an interview from her high school days. Watches as she goes from talking to fellow students to spilling out code like it’s cold coffee. She codes like he does. Like it’s easier than the spoken english word. It’s only one clip. 15 minutes long. From it though, he can understand why she didn’t go into Computer Science at university. She would have been bored.

Tony Stark is not overstating himself when he says he is the smartest person in the world. But he will also cheerfully inform you that his daughter will pass him up, and his son will pass him up too. For Starks it’s not a matter of possibility, only of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a lot on my mind recently but I've finished my exams for the year! so hopefully I'll be able to publish more chapters. There was a lot I wanted to do with this chapter, but I didn't want to go too far off topic. 
> 
> Alright! It wrote and edited this in two goes. The italics came at a different point in time. Let me know if you can tell the difference between the two and I'll let you know what it is. ;)
> 
> ALSO! What do you think of Tony Stark POV? Does it feel accurate? Creative criticism appreciated!
> 
> OH! PS! I'm writing a Naruto/Harry Potter fic so if that appeals to any of you let me know and I'll give you the link, I'm not planning on publishing it 'till I've finished it because I want it to be in proper book format so I'll hopefully write it and re-write it before I make it public... but you guys are my peeps so if you want to read it let me know! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments! <3


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